


Merry Christmas, Fuck You

by BananaStickers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Game Fucking, Sub!Crosby, lots of mentioned / implied Crosby sex partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 14:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: Sid's a little neurotic about his superstitions.  Especially when it comes to his post-game tradition of getting put on his knees.Set after the 12/21 PIT/CBJ game with a combined total of 63 penalty minutes.  All that anger has to be channeled somewhere...





	1. Chapter 1

Sidney Crosby was a creature of habit.

Superstitions, you could call it. When asked about it by the media, Sid would smirk, knowingly. _How much time do you have?_ he'd ask, thinking of the laundry list of quirks that simply must be done to continue ensuring success.

He kept his sticks by his stall until game time, instead of with the equipment managers or on the bench, and they had to be taped the same way. There was a certain garbage can in their home rink that had to be walked around just-so. With five minutes left in warm-ups, he'd retie his skates. Always at center ice, and starting with the right one first, then the left.

He ate the same pre-game food, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with a particular brand for both. There was no seeing his family on game days; last three times that had happened, he came away with a separated shoulder, broken foot, then a concussion.

He had post-game superstitions, too, taking his gear off in a particular manner, setting it in just the right place. _One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight_ circles of soap along his chest and stomach in the shower, then seven circles on each arm and leg. And, of course, the trickiest superstition, the one the press could never find out about: penance.

It was a regular-season superstition only, of course. In the playoffs, you had no time to critique your performance, it was simply heads down, work-your-ass-off kind of hockey. Dirty, ugly, do whatever needed to be done and don't think about anything else until hopefully June when you've raised that silver chalice. The playoffs were a whole different set of superstitions.

But in the regular season there was always something to work on, ways to get better. Sid could have a hat trick in the evening but he'd still brood about that pass that didn't quite saucer correctly, had hit a teammate in the calf instead of on the stick. Or the realization that if he had just been a little more patient, waited out the defenseman instead of making a move, he'd have had a teammate wide open on the backdoor. Or the fact that he hadn't properly picked up his center lane defensive responsibilities, and they'd gotten a good scoring chance from it. Or, or, or...there were a thousand, millions _ors_ that Sid went through every post-game.

They could consume him, if he allowed it. As a rookie, living with Mario Lemieux, there were nights he couldn't get to sleep. The Penguins were still awful, then, but Sid knew he was under the weight of expectations to bring them back to respectability. So those _ors_ ran through his head at night. If he'd just done this or this or this, they would have won. He'd head to the kitchen to get a drink of water, unable to settle his brain. Then he'd go back, get a Gatorade. Then he'd pace down the halls, settle in front of a window to do circles, _one-two-three-four-five-six..._

It didn't take long for Mario to have quite enough of this.

"You're keeping me up at night, kid," he told Sid, with his gentle, understanding smile. "What's up?"

So, Sid sat down, in Mario's office, in an oversized, plush chair, a little frayed from age and well-loved use over the years, and explained everything. And Mario had understood, probably better than most, what Sid was going through.

"When I was just starting," Mario explained, slowly, almost reluctantly, "I had the same problems. It was okay, when I was a rookie, but we finished last place again, my first year. So all summer I hear, what's wrong? Here I was, supposed to be the savior of the franchise, but the Penguins do the same with me as without me. So in my second year, I overthink it. It keeps me up at night. Like you. But somebody helped me."

Who?

Mario refused to say.

What did they do?

That, he said, would perhaps be easier to show than to tell. "Next home game," Mario promised. "Try and get some sleep tonight. I show you next time."

Their next home game wasn't for another five days, and Sid had forgotten all about the conversation by that time. The Penguins had lost, by one, and all Sid could think about was the wide open net he'd missed. It had been _right there_ and he missed, wide left. What was wrong with him? He'd need to stay after practice, tomorrow, hit that spot again and again, _one-two-three-four-five..._

Mario interrupted his counting, bringing him back to the present. "Come with me," he'd growled, low in his throat, a tone Sid had never heard before, one that brooked no resistance. So Sid went.

There was a small closet, in Mellon Arena, one Sid had never really noticed before, filled with chairs and folding tables and concert paraphernalia. Mario shoved him inside this closet, turned and locked the door. Sid felt a small thrill of terror jolt up his spine at the unknown.

"What - "

"No." Mario's lilting accent had an hint of steel to it, now, the edge of a knife, ready to cut. "No, you don't speak. Not unless I say. Tonight, right now, you don't do anything unless I say. Right here, you are not in control." Mario grabbed his wrists, pinned them to the concrete wall above his head, and the size difference between them became painfully obvious. Sid was a skinny, 18 year old kid, not even six feet tall. Mario had five inches on him, not to mention the full muscles that adulthood brought in a man's early 20s. There was really nothing Sid could do even if he wanted to.

Curiously, though, the only thing he found himself wanting to do was everything and anything that Mario said. He'd fought and scratched and clawed for control since he was eight years old, when it started to become obvious the kind of talent he had. Control of the puck, control of his team, control of his destiny. Now, here, in a supply closet in Mellon Arena, fighting for control would be useless, he knew. Mario was bigger, stronger, and the team owner to boot. There was nothing Sid could do but agree to whatever he wanted, and it was almost...a relief. Like his brain could finally relax for one second, because it didn't have to _fight_ anymore.

When Mario put him on his knees, he went eagerly.

They got a few odd looks, from the team, when they returned to the locker room. But the next day's practice went well. Normally, Sid had to stop himself from snapping at his team after a big loss if he saw them having fun or goofing off at practice. _Did you see what fucking happened last game? Pay the fuck attention!_ he wanted to say, and sometimes did. But not that practice. He wasn't sure why, but he felt relaxed, focused. Like Mario had taken all the dark, bubbling anger at himself and his teammates and wrung him out like a towel, emptied, and now he could start fresh.

They won that next game. Sid had two goals and felt fucking glorious. He waited, in the locker room afterwards, to see if Mario would collect him, but he didn't, he stayed on his side of the room, laughing and chatting with Mark Recchi. Sid didn't sleep quite as well that night; there was a nagging sensation, like he'd peeled off the corner of a label on a beer bottle and was picking at it, _pick-pick-pick,_ the glue coming undone, peeling back more and more. It would be so easy to just rip it off completely.

The next game, they were in Philadelphia, and Sid had an awful game. Minus two, no goals, blown defensive assignments. _Please,_ he'd asked Mario, when Lemieux grabbed his arm, led him out of the locker room. _Please, I need this._

But Mario didn't do it himself, not that night. He introduced Sid to Derian Hatcher, the terrifying, hard-hitting defenseman that Sid had been avoiding all night, trying not to get crushed into the boards. He felt a hot flush of shame at the man up close. Hatcher was big, bigger than even Mario, and Sid knew he'd cut off at least one rush early, rather than get plastered and checked by Hatcher. It was only fitting that Hatcher would be the one to administer this evening's...well, what was this?

Punishment?

That didn't seem quite the right word for it. _Penance,_ Sid had later decided as the term he wanted to use. A sort of offering to the hockey gods, that he wasn't in charge and in control all of the time. He could let go off the ice, after the game, offer himself up to opponents and teammates alike, and in return he'd keep his focus and control on the ice. Where it counted.

Hatcher was rougher, slapping him, growling that next time they met he wouldn't just be satisfied with Sid's mouth, that he'd better bring some fucking lube unless he was the kind of guy that wanted to bleed.

He wasn't. Sid started to carry it around with him, all the time, almost becoming another superstition, a small tube of lube - the same kind every time, Astroglide Gel, the bottle replaced the second it went under half full - and condoms. The lube went in his left jacket pocket, the condoms in the right pants pocket, always.

Mario made it clear that he would help out occasionally, but that wasn't good enough for Sid. It was obvious that Lemieux had needed this treatment sparingly, and even then only as a second-year player. But for Sid, once the superstition was in place, he knew, there would be no turning back. And that's how he ended up bent over in St. Louis for Keith Tkachuk, on his knees for the visiting Todd Bertuzzi in Mellon, in Marty Turco's apartment overlooking the city skyline as the Pens spent the night in Dallas before their plane took off the next morning. Turco was okay, but Sid vowed afterwards to never again submit to a goaltender. He was unable to properly get into the head space he desired with the enemy goalie standing above him.

Sid had long moved past his humiliation of asking opposing players for what he wanted. For most men, the idea of the much-touted Sidney Crosby on his knees, willing to do most anything they desired, was too much to say no to, even if they didn't necessarily want to help out an opponent. These days, Sid had a carefully curated list of thirty other men, one on each team, that he knew would be willing to smack him around a little, call him names, and fuck him until he was crying somewhere in the depths of the arena, his or theirs.

Sometimes, things simply didn't work out. The players' plane was leaving too early, or the other team was stuck in a mandatory post-game closed-door meeting. Luckily, Malkin was a good friend, willing to put Sid in his place from time to time when needed. Sid didn't prefer it; nothing against Geno, of course, but his touch was a little too delicate, sometimes. Sid liked raw anger, a heavy hand, a snarled curse with true venom behind it, and that was something Evgeni usually couldn't give him. Sid had the most fun when he'd had a great night on the ice, the opposing player taking his revenge out on his ass.

So here in Pittsburgh, a few days before Christmas, Sid was a little grumpy. The Pens were up against the hated Blue Jackets that evening, and the man he hated the _most,_ Brandon Dubinsky, had to go and get his idiot face punched in by Kassian and break his orbital bone. That meant he wasn't in Pittsburgh with the team.

Which also meant he wasn't going to be available for their typical post-game activities.

Sid hated Dubinsky the most, but also, annoyingly, needed Dubinsky the most. For most men, he'd go on his knees willingly, but not Brandon. With Brandon, he liked to mouth off, to disobey, to be disrespectful. Brandon took all that behavior in with a smug, arrogant, just-want-to-sucker-punch-him smirk and turned it all around on Sid. Brandon Dubinsky _forced_ him to submit, and Sid loved it, every second of their back-and-forth snarling, panting, groaning encounters.

Stupid asshole, going after _Zack fucking Kassian_ in a meaningless game they were getting blown out in. What a dipshit.

That meant he was going to have to enlist Malkin's help tonight, assuming Geno didn't have his own tryst lined up post-game. That was rare, and Sid couldn't think of anyone on the Jackets that Evgeni would want to fuck, but it did happen. And if _Geno_ wasn't available...

Well, it would ruin his whole holiday. Merry fucking Christmas to him.

Sid allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity, combined with every terrible, awful slur for Brandon Dubinsky that he could think of, _cock-sucker faggot bitch cunt piece of shit asshole,_ some things that he'd never even say out loud, before feeling slightly better about the whole thing and putting it aside in his mind. If he didn't get a move on, he was going to throw off the rest of his routine.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a surprisingly chippy game for the Jackets being without Dubinsky, their usual #1 shit-stirrer. Sid had even fought Seth Jones. _Maybe..._

He considered Seth, the weight of him as he fell on top of Sid on the ice, his heavy breathing and small growls of impatience as the refs pulled them apart. But Sid leaned over, yelled across the penalty boxes, _You're that much bigger than me and that's all you fucking got, pussy?_ Seth just rolled his eyes and waved him off. Sid wanted to see fury there, a longing to beat him, to overpower him, but there was nothing. No, Seth Jones would not be a good candidate for post-game activities.

The Penguins won in shootout. Sid missed his shootout goal; Kris Letang had to play the hero.

He replayed that shootout miss a hundred times as he stripped off his gear, headed off to take a quick shower. Normally he wouldn't bother til he submitted, the sweat still dripping hot, muscles still coiled tight from the game, the other man's dick tasting like hockey and hard work. But tonight there was nobody on the other team to submit to, so he got clean, the circles of body wash soothing him a little bit as he went through his routine. _Pick-pick-pick_ went his brain against the fraying corners, and Sid knew he had to get himself right, had to seek out his penance.

But Malkin wasn't in the locker room after Sid returned from the showers. _Goddamnit._ Geno had fought that evening, and he always got worked up after fighting, wanted to fuck someone, wanted to be rough. These chippy games were the few times that Sid really enjoyed Malkin's touch, when he was appropriately angry and frustrated. But much like Sid preferred opponents, Malkin did too. He wanted to fight the other team and then fuck them into oblivion.

But the Blue Jackets? Who the fuck did he find on the fucking _Blue Jackets?_

Sid angrily threw on his suit with jerky movements, the rest of the team and even the press knowing better than to bother him at the moment. He figured he'd take one last look around the arena. Maybe Geno was with the equipment guys, or talking to the coaching staff.

All the usual places were Malkin-free when Sid checked. The skate sharpener was buzzing, Dana and his boys working hard, but no Geno. The coaches were still going over video, but he wasn't there, either. Sid felt a pit of desperation in his stomach, kept walking down the hallway, hoping and praying that with every step, he'd see Malkin just around the corner. Even though he knew he was getting dangerously close to the visitor's locker room, he kept going, had to keep going, had to find him.

Hope sprang hot and heavy when Sid spotted a well-dressed man with his back turned. Gray suit, wool pea coat, even a scarf and that knit beanie that Evgeni preferred in the winter months. The man turned, glanced over his shoulder at the incoming footfalls from Sid, who jerked to a stop like he'd run into a wall.

Not Malkin.

Boone Jenner lifted his eyebrow and smirked. He'd been kicked out of the game with a misconduct for crosschecking Guentzel in the face, so he'd probably been dressed and ready to go for at least an hour. "He's not here," Jenner told Sid, dryly.

"How do you know I'm looking for Geno?"

"Geno? Malkin?" Boone frowned. "I meant Dubi."

Sid scoffed, turned to leave. "Yeah, I'm not looking for _Dubinsky."_

"Really?" Sid nearly jumped out of his skin; somehow, Jenner had moved from ten feet away, leaning against a wall, to suddenly being close enough that Sid could feel his breath on the back of his neck. He whirled around; Boone was right in his face. Close. Too close.

Or maybe not close enough.

"Really," Boone said again, not really a question this time, "Because it seems like you're always looking for Dubi. You don't think if he rounded that corner right now that you'd fall on your knees and beg to suck him off? That's not what I hear."

"Shut up," Sid hissed, glancing around; Boone's voice was much too loud for the amount of people hanging about in the hallways. "Figures that Dubinsky can't keep his fat mouth shut about anything."

"You'd be surprised. He just told me about it. He knew he wasn't going to make the trip in, and..." Jenner lowered his voice, leaning forward. "You just have to have a dick in your mouth after games, don't you, Crosby? So Dubi said I could take his place, if I wanted. That I would know how to put you on your knees, where you belong."

Sid scowled, keeping his eyes over Boone's shoulder, checking for anyone who was coming too close that might overhear. "That's not Dubinsky's fucking choice to make, first of all. I decide who gets me, not him. Second of all, even if it was his to pass off...where the fuck were you? Huh?"

"Yeah, about that," Boone drawled, sounding unimpressed. "I'm not exactly feeling super magnanimous towards you and your bitch-ass team right now after that shit tonight. Didn't quite feel like seeking you out and giving you what you wanted, you know? Tell me, did you have to suck the refs off, or did they accept money instead for that bullshit misconduct call tonight?"

"Magnanimous? That's a big word coming from a stupid asshole."

"You are a stupid asshole," Boone agreed, and he wrapped one hand around Sid's tie and yanked. He had on black leather gloves, and Sid wasn't sure why, but he found that small detail hot as hell. "See, I didn't much feel like seeking you out. But I figure if you're so cock-thirsty desperate you had to come find me, well, I might be persuaded to give you what you want."

Sid attempted to extract his tie from Boone's grasp. "Let's not do this here," he growled. "Follow - "

"Ask nicely." Rather than letting go, Boone tightened his grip around the tie, yanking further, nearly choking Sid. To his credit, his voice was low now, barely above a whisper. "Say it. Tell me, 'Please, Boone, I want to choke on your cock.'"

"You give yourself far too much credit."

"Fine." Boone let go of Sid's tie, took a step backwards. "Enjoy your night, then, fuckface."

The sight of Jenner's back, his retreating figure, overpowered Sid's ego. "Wait," he snapped, pausing until Boone had made his way back over, was leaning down over Sid again, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Please," he said, quietly, through grit teeth. "Boone, please choke me with your cock."

"Lead the way," Jenner told him, sounding smugly pleased.

 _This better be good,_ he thought about saying, but opted to stay silent, just indicated for Boone to follow him. PPG Paints Arena had a number of storage rooms, significantly more than Mellon did, but there was one that was Sid's particular favorite. It had a long table that was the perfect height to bend over, the door locked tightly, and it was tucked in a corridor away from the main walk, away from press and teammates and anyone who might hear him whimpering.

"You'll want to be quick, I imagine, to head to the airport," Sid told him, turning down the corridor to his storage spot.

"Oh, this won't take long," Boone agreed.

Sid's hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment when he heard an odd noise. He tilted his head, listening - _what was that?_ \- but it didn't come again, so he opened the door, and...

"Geno," he gasped, taking an involuntary step backwards and hitting Boone square in the chest, who shoved him forward again, annoyed. He could tell when Jenner saw what he did from his sharp intake in breath.

Evgeni Malkin blinked dumbly at the pair in the doorway. He was pressing Nick Foligno up against the wall, the Blue Jackets' legs wrapped around Malkin's waist. Foligno had a bright swath of blood down his beard, and Malkin's shirt was ridden up to show deep red scratches down his back. They had torn each other apart on the ice, punching and fighting, and were apparently doing the same now.

The only difference was, this time, Malkin was _inside_ of Foligno.

"Malkin, what the fuck!" Nick hissed, punching him hard in the shoulder. "Are you too fucking stupid to work a door lock? You said - "

"I thought I lock door," Evgeni snapped back at him. "Shut up, you want I drop you?"

"You'll break your fucking dick off if you drop me, shitface, so just try it."

"Whatever," Geno rolled his eyes, looking again at Sid. "We almost done, you come in, there room in back."

Crosby sighed, elaborately, scooting past the pair to head to the back of the storage room. "Are you coming?" he asked Boone, who was still standing in the doorway, staring at his captain. Geno had started moving again, was driving Nick into the wall as he fucked him, both men sucking in great gulps of air. "Jenner, we don't have time to find anywhere else."

"You so fucking loose," Malkin snarled at Nick, biting his shoulder.

"Your dick is just tiny," Nick panted. "Boone, just - _ngh_ \- fucking go over there and we'll pretend we never fucking saw each other." Malkin bit Nick again, drawing a fresh hiss, and he yanked a huge fistful of Evgeni's hair in response.

"Ow," Geno growled.

 _"Good,"_ Nick retorted with his own snarl.

Boone moved cautiously past them, following Sid to the back of the storage room. From here, they could still hear Nick and Evgeni, but no longer see them.

"If _that_ freaks you out, I'm not sure you're up for this," Sid said, brattily, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Boone slapped him. The soft leather of his gloves made the blow a little less painful; it was mostly the shock of it that silenced Sid.

"Shut your whore mouth," Boone told him, and Sid did. 

Boone started to pull off those black leather gloves, dropping them on a nearby table, shaking his head. "You're so fucking _greedy,"_ he mused, starting to unwind his scarf from his neck. "So greedy for dick that you walk into a storage closet where your own teammate is already having sex and you don't even give a shit. Can't even be bothered to find another private closet. Just have to get plowed, don't you? It's the only thing on your mind right now, isn't it?" Boone dropped his scarf, took off his beanie and ran his fingers along his scalp, getting rid of the matted-down hair. "I wish I could tell every kid that looks up to you and wants to be you. Fuck no, you don't want to be like Crosby. He's so fucked up that he thinks he'll play like shit the next game unless he gets it up the ass."

"Just a blowjob if it's a back to back," Sid told him, and Boone shot him a warning look as he removed his jacket, both outer and suit.

"I thought I told you to shut your fucking mouth? Well shit, then you can get on your knees and make it so you can't say another word, with my dick in your mouth. Got it?"

Sid knew better than to speak, this time, and sank to his knees. He badly wanted to pull off his suit jacket; adrenaline had started him sweating, again, had flushed his cheeks, overheating him. It didn't help that he could hear Foligno in the front of the closet, whining in a way he'd never heard the Jackets captain before, _oh God, oh fuck, oh FUCK, right there you dumb fuck,_ and Geno was growling out Russian profanities in the way he did when he was getting close. He listened to the pair crying out their orgasms in between hurled insults as he carefully unbuttoned and unzipped Jenner's suit pants. He went for Boone's belt, but was stopped, so he pushed aside Boone's briefs to free him.

 _This would be easier if you took your pants off,_ Sid decided against saying, although the sight of the man, fully dressed with just his cock free, was a heady sight. Boone was poking hard through the fly of his suit pants, longer than Dubinsky, resting thick against the cold metal zipper. Jenner tilted his hips forward, a silent demand on Sid, who opened his mouth gratefully for what Boone was offering.

The game became an afterthought for Sid when he was down on his knees, sucking somebody off. He didn't think about the faceoffs he lost, the shootout goal he let slip through his grasp, all the chances on the power play, squandered. All he thought about was how he could fit this entire length down his throat without choking, whether Boone liked the head played with - mmm, no, no desired effect there, what about if he hollowed his cheeks out, sucking _hard_ \- yes, right there, there's that whimper he wanted, the quick involuntary hip buck. Sid did it again, like he was trying to suck something out of a straw, was gratified when Boone lost control, grabbed the back of his head and thrust in.

"You like me fucking your mouth?" he huffed, rocking his hips. Sid couldn't speak, but he moaned, trying to open his mouth even wider in encouragement. "Goddamn, those little choking sounds you're making. You do have a lot to make up for with that little punk bitch performance on the ice tonight. If I'd have known this was the best way to shut your whiny ass up, I would have done it a long time ago."

Sid nearly whimpered as Boone whacked him gently in the temple to stop him sucking, then pulled out and smacked him harder, the fleshy sound echoing through the closet. "Don't whine, you little cock slut," Boone said. "You got condoms? No way I'm fucking a dirty little whore like you without one."

Sid fumbled in his pocket, yanking out a condom to present to Boone, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. He glanced down; there were scuff marks on the knees of his grey suit. Evidence of what he'd just been doing. He didn't know why he wore anything but black suits, anymore, this always happened.

"Well of course you have condoms," Boone mocked, grabbing one. "You have lube, too, don't you? All ready to get fucked. Why don't you get yourself ready for me, Crosby? Fuck yourself down on those fingers of yours. Shouldn't take too long with how many men have been inside you, right? Besides, I don't want to get my hands dirty."

Sid took the opportunity to shuck off his suit jacket, now, grabbing the lube before setting it aside. He thought about taking off his pants, but no, they were dirty now anyway, so he simply pushed them down along with his boxers, let them pool against his dress shoes.

He didn't much like when he had to get himself ready, he preferred calloused fingers inside of him, opening him up, sloppy and rough. He could never quite reach like he wanted to, either. But Boone at least looked sufficiently intrigued at Crosby's own fingers inside himself. He leaned against the wall, watching, still belted up at his waist with the open fly, his cock slick and shiny from Sid's spit now.

"I'm going to fuck you until you forget everything except my name," Boone told him, in a conversational tone, like they were talking about hockey. "I'm not gonna touch you, though. And you know what - fuck it, you won't touch yourself, either. I don't give a shit if _you_ come. I want you to watch me leave, sated and spent after I shoot all over your face, and then have to fuck your own fist with the memory of me inside you to finally get off. Oh, you like that idea?" 

Sid nodded, flushed, realizing he was hard now, at both Jenner's words and his own fingers, awkwardly reached behind him to pump, smearing lube between his thighs, slippery and messy. He watched with dark, glazed eyes as Boone opened the condom, letting the wrapper flutter to the floor, and rolled it onto himself .

Boone glanced at his watch, finally unbuckling his belt. "I'm gonna be late if you don't get to work," he said, patting his lap, still leaned up against the wall. "Why don't you fuck yourself back against me, if you want it so bad. Here, I'll at least help get you started." He snagged Sid's hip with one big hand, the other keeping his cock still, pressed blunt to Sid's hole. "C'mon then. Show me how you love getting fucked, hm?"

Sid pressed hard backwards, rocking on his heels as his ass smacked flush against Boone's groin, bottomed out in one quick fluid movement. "Fuck, Crosby, you don't waste any time, do you," Boone muttered, and Sid answered by leaning forward and then smacking back again. If he had to do all the work, he figured, he was going to fuck himself exactly how he wanted on Boone's dick, rough and unyielding and fast. Boone was _big_ and Sid felt like he was being cored open, but it wasn't good enough, wasn't rough enough.

"Need..." he muttered, through chapped lips, licking at them to get some wetness back into them. "Fuck me, use me, please, Br - ..."

"Oh, shit," Boone said, sounding delighted, and now he did grab onto Sid's hips, fingernails digging into his skin. "You almost said _Brandon,_ didn't you, fuckface."

Sid shook his head, _no,_ with a low moan.

"Don't lie," Boone taunted. "God, Dubi is gonna _love_ that, you bent over and dreaming about his dick. You know what I bet you'd love? I bet you'd love having both of us, one at each end, just filled up in every fucking hole. Huh, Crosby, is that your deepest desire?"

Along with those words, Boone grabbed at his tie and yanked back, like they were reins on a riding horse, and Sid supposed they sort of were. Jenner took control, fucked him ruthlessly, quick spikes of movement that drove him open. He drew back his free hand and spanked him hard enough to leave a red hand print on Sid's ass, drawing a ragged, needy whimper out of Sid. "God, I just want to spank you until you learn to _shut the fuck up,"_ Boone said.

 _Promises, promises._ Sid didn't trust himself to say anything in response, but he ached for it, wanted it badly, loved when practice the next day was uncomfortable and sore enough that he had to push through it, making him a better player. His own cock rubbed against the bottom of his dress shirt as he was fucked, giving him just enough friction, combined with Jenner's words and the brutal tempo, that he was close, even without being touched. He hung his head and tried not to cry, frustrated at his flirtation along the edge of his orgasm, close but yet too far away.

Boone shoved him forward, suddenly, nearly toppling him on his face, drawing a pitiful whine - _so close, so fucking close_ \- out of Crosby. "Open your mouth," he snarled, yanking the condom off, and Sid obeyed, turning around on his knees, face lifted skyward, mouth open.

He caught the first bits of Boone's come in his mouth, but he coughed a little, and the rest striped down his face and chin.

Boone slumped back against the wall, breathing hard from his orgasm, and glanced again at his watch. "Fuck. Gonna be late," he muttered, yanking his pants back up, re-buttoning and re-belting and smoothing out his clothes. He looked rumpled and ruddy, and Sid felt a glow of pride, _I did that, he looks like that because of me._ Jenner stepped around Sid, paused to glance back. "You look good like that - on your knees, covered in my come. And we play you again next week, don't we? Well, Merry Christmas, asshole," he laughed, collecting his coat and other belongings, and without another word, he was gone, out the door. Foligno and Malkin must have been long gone, too, although Sid didn't know when exactly they left, hadn't heard much of anything, too wrapped up in what he was doing.

Sid was filthy, used, covered in sweat and come and grime, still down on the floor.

And Sid felt fucking _alive._ He basked in the moment, of not worrying about anything, not the weight of expectations or his performance on the ice or the next interview, there was nothing here but the taste of come in his mouth and his still-achingly hard cock. Just like Boone predicted, Sid finished himself off while he kneeled on the floor, thinking about being split open, thinking about Boone's taunt, _I bet you'd love me and Dubi in every fucking hole_ and God, he would, he was fucking shameless. Boone's come dripped down his chin, rolling down his neck to catch against the collar of his dress shirt, and he came in his hand with a stuttering gasp.

They did play the Jackets next week, Sid knew, and he also knew this time, if the game went to a shootout, he wouldn't miss. Couldn't miss. Not since everything was right again, his brain soothed, that frayed edge glued temporarily back into place, at least until next game.

Merry Christmas indeed, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you're interested in a follow up, either with Sid & another team or on Foligno/Malkin because [this](https://streamable.com/ijfep) happened and my brain loves fighting-to-fucking tropes.


End file.
